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He never looked at them without a proud little intake of breath and a certain swelling of the heart. On the steamer he found that a medal for running had slipped into one of the cases. He rather chuckled over that. He had a sense of humour, in spite of his seven-word creed. And a bit of superstition, for that night, at dusk, he went out on to the darkened deck and flung it overboard.
On the topmost panel of the door, which a few minutes before had dealt me so vicious a blow, I scratched a seven-word sentiment sincere, if not classic: "God bless our Home, which is Hell." The violent exercise of the morning had given me a good appetite and I ate my dinner with relish, though with some difficulty, for the choking had lamed my throat.
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